


Dangers of Phoenix Mail Service

by Schursch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9012292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schursch/pseuds/Schursch
Summary: Christmas of 1915 unsettles Albus enough to write a letter to Gellert he intends to send...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archdemonblood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archdemonblood/gifts).



> A gift fic for archdemonblood for Winter Holidays Grindeldore Exchange.  
> English is not my first language, so I apologize for style/mistakes in advance!

Albus Dumbledore sat by the desk with a quill in his hand, adding an occasional swirl in fresh ink, trying to embellish his slightly unsteady handwriting. Writing a letter after an evening of celebration in the Great Hall (and all the wine shared by the staff) was not the best idea, but he needed to curb the onslaught of reminiscence and doubts, caused by the unrest and talks which simmered in the magical Britain as her Muggle fellow island-dwellers went to war. 

====  
December 24, 1915  
Dear Gellert,

I do not think I’ve written your name in quite a while; the last time a pile of parchment went to waste under my many attempts to let my thoughts and feelings known, it was close to five years ago. See, I remember because it was right before I accepted the teaching position. Naturally, while it would give me a quite familiar home away from home and the means to secure an income to continue my research, I was plagued by doubts. Whether these considerations were too mundane; whether I was closer to finding a purpose to my life, or straying even further from the one I thought I found for that short summer. Whether it was right to hide away from the world in the familiar castle of Hogwarts.   
I can spare you the guesswork: I have been teaching Transfiguration for five years, and living in the school rhythm from the other side is both familiar and peculiar. It certainly helps me lull myself into believing that there is not much going on except for noticing who shows talent in which branch of magic and who needs help cracking the basics, doing my own research and keeping up with related correspondence.   
Of course, it is too much to expect that everybody will be as decidedly trying to avoid the outside world as I, and I can hardly escape the news from across the Channel and the discussions they bring.  
Every time I hold my breath waiting that somebody will bring up your name, talking about how some of Europe’s wizards and witches are protesting against the decision not to get involved in the war, or are discreetly enlisting in the army or signing up for the Red Cross. I do not know whether I want proof that you are out there, trying to steer this upheaval into something which would bring about a better world, or whether I dread it, thinking how your brilliance and confidence easily can make you merciless for the sake of the goal.   
It is not widely known yet inside the school for fear of setting a dangerous example, but at least three of the young and bright I had the pleasure to teach went off to join the war. And I cannot say if my heart aches from the worry for them, as I still remember them fumbling through their spells in the fourth year, or it is for the fact they are doing what I was prevented from first by circumstances, and later by my self-imposed choice (or indecisiveness?). They have gone out into the wide and turmoilous world to make it better, as we were going to.  
It must be the elfwine allowing me to believe for a moment that you still think of me and our conversations and plans, and feel wistful. I try not to make a habit of it - after all, too much fails to fit into the idyllic picture only a selective memory can draw. I’ve made a Pensive, so my memories can be as precise as I dare to look for. You must have found others to be by your side; or you trying to make all the plans by yourself, I can easily picture both. The idea that you have perished is too unbearable; that you have settled - too improbable. I wonder if you would think the same about me.

It’s time for me to stop if this letter has any chance of being sent instead of perishing in my fireplace. 

Take care, Gellert. 

A.D.

P.S. I do not blame you for the obvious: rather, I blame myself and that I should have known better than...I do hold you in fault for leaving me alone to pick up the shards, selfish as it is of me.

===  
Albus vigorously crossed out the last lines, and murmured a spell to cut off that part of letter entirely. The ink has dried, and he rolled up the parchment, tied it and shrinked in size before he could change his mind.   
Sending an owl was out of question - too far away, and the risk of being intercepted was high: there were rumors of the attempts to scrutinize personal correspondence, so as to limit the scale of magical involvement into Muggle affairs of the war. Dumbledore looked towards the perch where Fawkes was cleaning his feathers. The phoenix looked back at him with interest and flew over to the table, trying to pick the small package from his hands.  
“Easy, my friend”, ruffled his feathers Albus, trying to steady his hands and the phoenix so as to tie the message. “I know it’s a long flight, but shorter for you than for most. Would you do that for me? Would you find him?..”  
In hindsight, Albus saw that it was the only way things could unfold: Fawkes felt when he was at odds with himself. Moreover, he hatched when Dumbledore’s heart was torn by pain and guilt, and largely for the same reasons as it ached now. To make things worse, five years ago Albus asked the phoenix to burn all those unsent drafts before writing and sending a well-phrased acceptance of the position at Hogwarts.  
He barely had time to exclaim in protest when the parchment turned to ash under a sharp and fast wing blow, and slowly crumbled in his palm. Fawkes crooned, calm again, and nuzzled his sleeve. Albus sighed, feeling both relieved and disappointed.  
“Perhaps you are right about this one. Too much wine to be writing letters to somebody I have not talked to in 16 years. Don’t burn the one I will write tomorrow, though”.  
But the morning brought the routine of the castle at holidays, and between taking a walk with the colleague and correcting a Transfiguration project for one of the students who did not go home, the mood for letters full of revelations and memories was gone.


End file.
